


Not With a Whimper

by heroictype (swanreaper)



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Carlos Appreciation Week, Gen, M/M, lots of cheese
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 12:48:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6079863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swanreaper/pseuds/heroictype
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What was his favorite thing? It was built in fragments of genuine affection and sharp pains. From these stones and sticks, Carlos learned how to create a safe haven, and understanding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not With a Whimper

**Author's Note:**

> So! [Carlos Appreciation Week](http://carlosweek.tumblr.com/)! That's THIS week, folks. Check it out.
> 
> I've been super excited since I heard about it... three days ago, but still. Very excited. And so, rather late in the day, I come through with this! The prompt for today was more "why is Carlos your favorite?" But I started thinking about Carlos favorite things/people, how that might have come to be, and how what we love can be our best refuge. So, sappy? Yes. But I really love Carlos, okay. He's a great character. This is for Day One. I don't know how consistent I'll be, but I'm going to try!
> 
> Huge thanks to covinskey and smilodonmeow on tumblr for beta'ing! It helped more than I can really express.
> 
> Finally, **warnings** for bullying, and implications of ableism and homophobia.

"Just sit still! And - what's this? Ah!" Carlos’ kindergarten teacher peered into his juice. "What did you do?"

Carlos peered solemnly into the cup with her. A pouch's worth of mashed fruit gummies floated in the cup. The way they stuck to his teeth and tongue made him... sick. There had to be a better word for it, but he hadn’t learned it yet.

So he couldn't describe the feeling, the way the nerves in his mouth reacted, accurately. He knew there was electricity in there, like the lightbulbs that turned the whole classroom slightly yellow. He knew the impulses were saying no, no, no, to that awful sticky feeling. He just couldn't eat the snack.

He answered, "I wanted to see if the juice would be fruitier. If you add something to itself, it's supposed to be more, right? 'S not."

He glared at her. She was the one who'd taught him addition. She was the one who had lied, but she glared back.

"You have to apologize to Karrie for ruining the snack her mommy brought! If she has any extra, you can have another, so you're not grouchy later."

"No!" He shouted. His sense of the world, already tight and overcrowded, became overwhelmingly claustrophobic. He rocked back and forth in his chair. Karrie was going to laugh at him, and then everyone else would, and she never got in trouble for that. The teacher told him, _just ignore it, Carlos_ , but the way the other kids looked at him was like ants creeping around in his chest. Everyone was staring at him already, and all he could express was, “No!”

The teacher crossed her arms. "Now, what did we say about tantrums? Carlos, since this is your third strike this week, you're just going to have to wait in the hall during show-and-tell, and you've got to take a note home."

"No, no, no! That's no… no fair!"

His telescope was in his backpack. It was small and plastic, but he could use it to find the Big Dipper and the Corona Borealis, and the outer edge was painted with stars. It was his prize possession, but not something as cheap or simple as a favorite toy. Everyone needed to see it.

What came out was: “I think stars are cool! Stop being mean!”

The class burst into laughter. He started to cry. She sighed, and said, “You’ll learn about space next year, Carlos, and right now, it’s still snack time. I think you really need something to eat.”

He spent the rest of the hour in the corner, sniffling and occasionally letting out a sob into his sleeve, but it was easier to calm down when he was away from everyone. She watched him while he ate, and if she saw how the snack made him gag, she ignored it.

She never really paid much attention; she didn’t even notice when he snuck his telescope out of his bag and under his sweater. Out in the hallway, he focused and refocused on the first grader’s art projects. He imagined that the splotches of paint and glitter were new planets, and he named them after himself.

* * *

Time went on. They introduced concepts more complex than snack time and show-and-tell.

At age twelve, he lay on his bed and held his history textbook above his head. He mouthed the words to himself. _Read aloud,_ said the study guide he'd found, _so you can know you're following along with the text._

All the information, dates and names and numbers, glanced off his brain. He read the same passage a few times. He tried the next one, to see if he could get something, anything out of it. It just didn’t stick; whatever part of his brain was responsible for reading comprehension, it wasn’t having any of this.

He pulled the book close to his face and sighed onto it, feeling the damp warmth of his breath spreading over the pages. He pushed the book away and rolled onto his side, curled up. His eyes squeezed shut. His heart pounded in his chest, so fast, probably too fast. He pressed two fingers just underneath his chin and counted.

He forced his eyes open again, to watch the clock as sixty seconds ticked past. One hundred and nine beats in one minute. Elevated for a rest period.

At eye level, next to him on the bed, was a different book. _A Brief History of Time._ He’d been at the library to research for an English project, but that had caught his eye, too. He rolled back over, and looked at the history textbook. He made the effort, a gesture of goodwill, a gesture of, “you’re a smart boy, why don’t you do these very specific things that we say will help you?” His hand touched the cover of the textbook, and his throat seized up.

He twisted around for the third time, and opened the other book. As he read, a small smile formed on his face, as he forgot about the words he couldn't hold, thanks to all the information he could.

Tomorrow, there would be consequences. But what was time, anyway?

* * *

Carlos gathered his materials and slipped them into his backpack one by one. Pencil, textbook, binder. Lastly, he took the edge of his lab notebook and guided it slowly closed, as opposed to letting gravity do its thing. He put that away last.  

In the time it had taken him to do this, the rest of the class had rushed from the room. He swung his bag over one shoulder, and made his way to Ms. Stern's desk. As he walked, he kept two fingers pressed under his chin and counted. He considered words, different combinations and meanings, all toward the same end: an excuse and an apology. He opened his mouth to babble, but she wasn’t look at him. She spoke first.

"Carlos, I just wanted to ask you something," she asked, as she examined a flyer on her desk. She held it up for him. "Have you considered joining the Science Quiz Bowl?"

The flyer was familiar. Whoever had made it was clearly a scientist, not a graphic designer, but it got the message across. "Interested in honing your Science Skills?? Come join the Quiz Bowl!"

Carlos' mouth opened, and he said, "No! I mean... I mean, I'm really sorry, but... I'm not a scientist. I mean, I know a little, but I don't think I'd do very well with... that kind of thing..."

"Why not?"

"Well, I'm already in the school play! Really, that's... probably all I can manage." He offered her a watery smile.

"Practice is only once a week. There's some crunch time leading up to the event, but I don't think the schedule conflicts..." She reached for the extracurricular calendar.

"It wouldn't, but... but I'm really not a scientist!"

"It's your choice. But we'd love to have you on the team."

His choice. His time. What even was time? He’d never figured that one out. In fact, he’d only grown less certain over the past few years. Yet in that particular fragment of whatever time was, he realized he needed to think about how to spend it.

* * *

His parents weren't thrilled with his choice, to say the least.

_“You have enough trouble getting your homework done, you knew our agreement about the play, that still counts. If you don’t get your work done, you’re not doing anything else after school until it is done. Do you understand, young man?”_

He worked hard. On the nights when he couldn't pick up a pen, when he was dizzy from fear and the alarms that blared _avoid, avoid, avoid_ went off in his head, he cried.

But on the nights when he could work, when he needed to work so badly that he could hardly breathe air from all the facts and figures filling up his lungs, he would work past his morning alarm. He worked until he had five minutes to throw on a t-shirt and jeans.

It was a feast-or-famine lifestyle, and yet, he caught himself thinking, _better than sheer intellectual starvation._ He completed his projects. He practiced his lines, all three of them, because he could shout them and no one would care how loud he was.

It was worth it whenever he met with his teammates informally over lunch. "Scientifically speaking, it looks like the answer is..."

They all crowded over the answer key. He was right that time.

He still counted his pulse, but for the first time that he could think of, the acceleration came from exhilaration. He even studied for the Quiz Bowl during rehearsal, in between his role of "Courtier #3," where he did his best to stick up his nose at the ragged peasant girl who had the spotlight.

"Not that high, Carlos," the drama teacher sighed, waving a hand at him.

It wasn't her fault. She preferred teaching to directing, so he couldn’t truly expect her to appreciate his flair. He went back to his books as the leads marched out on stage again.

* * *

They lost the quiz bowl. Not by much, and the human heart was a tough muscle. He had learned this. He held onto it. It was a scientific fact.

Still, he was queasy all the way through their post-game ice cream party. He barely answered when someone spoke to him, and he didn't laugh at the jokes about mitochondria. Ms. Stern congratulated him, and thanked him for participating. He called his mother, and left early, when the sound of human voices started to grate against the inside of his skull.

He didn't really start feeling better until he'd curled up at home, with the ninth edition of Van Nostrand’s Scientific Encyclopedia and some chocolate milk.

* * *

When he toured colleges, he paid special attention to lab facilities and faculty. He walked through a crowded room of representatives, all stationed at booths for more clubs than Carlos had realized there were subjects of interest.

Someone shoved a pin at him. "UWII GSA," it proclaimed over a rainbow background. He glanced over his shoulder at his parents. They did not look happy. He turned his open palm upward, shook his head, and mumbled, "Sorry."

He made his way to the science club's booth, and had a long conversation about schedules and projects and new advancements in the field of Science, such a singular and special thing. He also asked the upperclassmen for some coursework recommendations.

That day, he left the school smiling.

* * *

"Look! That's it! What we’re looking for, and it’s in just the right place..."

He waved his hands excitedly. There was no winning or losing in science, but there was no arguing with the evidence: being right felt, really, really good.

His partner glared at him. "Could you not do that? It's really distracting."

Carlos froze, and immediately shoved his hands into his pockets. He found himself a moment later, staring at the table without actually seeing anything. But the results were still - well, not perfect. Scientifically speaking, perfect wasn't possible.

It was just as he'd hypothesized, though. He still had that. He forced himself to read over his notes again, word by word. He still felt good about this, and he’d give up his internship before he let a fellow student take that away from him.

He picked up his pen and twirled it in his fingertips as he leaned back over the microscope. He recorded his observations exactly. It wasn't science at all if you didn't write it down, and it was very important for this to be _good_ science.

He aced the class. His lab partner got a B, thanks mostly to his effort for their mutual benefit. He could only guess that not everyone was so interested in science. 

* * *

He received his first grant at an award dinner shortly after graduation for, fittingly enough, post-graduate study. For the first time, he got to wear a tie under his lab coat, It had taken him several tries, with a five minute break in between two series of attempts, to get it right. The clean white coat shone over a black shirt, but the tie was his second favorite part. Little smiling bacteria squirmed in stillness over a green background.

That night, he consumed a large amount of small portions of food, and had more than the recommended levels of alcohol.

He grinned as he took the certificate, although the check, the part that mattered, would arrive later. His nerves jangled as he stepped on stage, and his hands were so sweaty that he could only be accurately called gross. He shook the presenter’s offered hand, anyway, while his other twisted excitedly in the collar of his lab coat.

They told him he would do great work, and internally, he corrected them: _More great work. Science is always great work._

He would learn parts of how the world worked. Not the whole thing, because there was too much information than any individual mind could contain, but he intended to fill himself to bursting. What mattered was that no one could stop him - he had the resources for the first step right here - and he'd never been more excited in his life.

* * *

It was over ten years and several grants later when he got one with much less ceremony. It arrived his faculty mailbox at the university; the envelope was crumped and stained, and it looked yellowed with age, too. The postage, however, was recent.

The return address said, "NVCC," and underneath it there was a photorealistic tube sock with something squishy inside it. The image appeared to be dripping down the envelope, and it was wet when he ran his hand over that edge. He pressed the fingertips of his other hand under his chin, but this time, he couldn't place if it was excitement or fear that jumpstarted his heart.

Well, that envelope was just the sort of phenomenon he'd applied to investigate. It was time to get the team together.

He hurried into the lab that morning, imbued with approximately 2.6 times his usual, already-high amount of purpose and energy, measured in standard felix units. It was a 0.2% increase from his last approval; not only was he not getting tired of this, it was getting better.

"Nils! Dave! Everyone!"

All eyes fell on him. He tugged eagerly at the collar of his lab coat, and beamed.

"We've got science to do! Let's get packing!"

His team greeted the announcement with cheers, and Carlos knew he'd be home now wherever he went. But the future, being unpredictable and so distant from the knowable present, would wait to tell him how true that would be.

* * *

 

And so, science was his favorite thing, and scientifically speaking, “favorite” was a superlative term. Traditionally, then, you could only have one favorite thing.

He wrestled with this privately after coming to Night Vale, for longer than he would have admitted even to Cecil. Sure, there was the option of having a favorite person, but that felt like a cop-out, somehow.

What he concluded, after hours of painstaking research, a couple of dropped beakers, and Cecil's name with hearts drawn around it taking up multiple pieces of paper on his clipboard, was this:

_Everything could change. Even science. Science was about many things, including discovery and progress._

So if he discovered that he had more than one favorite, well, all that meant was that he was breaking new ground. It was perhaps the most scientific achievement he had made to date.

Of course, just to be sure, it wouldn’t hurt to do some more testing. He grabbed his cell phone, and then the beaker it had been lying next to, which he almost knocked over in his enthusiasm. Once all the chemicals were steady, he made a selection from his contact list.

“Hey, Ceec? It’s me, Carlos. I was wondering if you wanted to go out tonight… Oh, no, no particular reason... I mean, yes, to celebrate something. Do we need a reason to celebrate? Scientifically speaking, it’s… Sure, but it’s to commemorate something. Not… not an occasion or event, but _you_ , honey.”

He paused as he could practically feel plumes of delighted steam wafting from Cecil’s ears. An unusually visual metaphor for an aural situation, but it suited the sudden stammering coming from the other end.

“I'm a scientist. I know about these things. Yes, that sounds great. I’ll meet you there after work, ‘kay, babe? Cool. See you later. I love you.”

He hung up, and clutched the phone to his chest. Yes, his boyfriend was definitely one favorite, and Carlos wouldn’t give up any of them.


End file.
